Look
by Xiilnek
Summary: Gene studies him, looks a little more closely than maybe he should.
1. Ending the Second

**Title:** Look

**Rating: **White Cortina

**Length: **368 words

**Pairing: **Gene/???

**Notes: **So many thanks to Dorsetgirl, for helping me make this far better than it would have been.

~*~

Look at that - studied slouch, every inch of him perfectly placed. No belt around sunbleached, torn jeans, hips thrown out at exactly the right angle to attract attention - smooth stomach, back arched just enough - must be a cold night, judging by his outline against that threadbare excuse for a shirt. Wonder if the lad could use a jacket.

I can see his eyelashes, if I squint a certain way - a thin dark line against skin yellowed from the streetlight, eyelids closed on an oddly peaceful expression. Head thrown back, adam's apple working before he takes a hearty drag from a half-gone cigarette.

I didn't even know he smoked. Now 'e's suckin' 'em down like a--

Anyway.

Look at him. His knees are spread ever-so-slightly wider than his feet in those scuffed up shoes, you see that? The light switches off, but near-dawn lends enough me light to see his hand twitch, fingers curl and tighten their grip before his lips twist in a shade of smirk I've never seen before. He pushes off the lamp and takes long, easy strides toward the car, his hips doing this little -- once again, every bit of him exactly where he wants it to be. I take small, even breaths as he slings the door open and drops onto the seat beside me. "We'll get 'im yet, Guv. He'll take the bait sooner or later." He reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, all warm encouragement, but from the corner of my eye I can see the instant his smile begins to fade. It shifts into a frown, a stare burning its way into the side of my skull.

A twitch, a squeak of my gloves tightening on the steering wheel, and his hand jerks but doesn't stop. It slides between us, slow and intent, comes to a stop just above my belt. It hovers there a moment before drifting into a coat pocket, wiggling around and drawing a cigarette out from the packet there.

It's barely an inch from his lips before his wrist is caught, chilled skin beneath my fingers.

I let out my breath in a slow, careful stream, and turn to meet his eyes.

~*~

**More Notes:** Inspiration, I hear you not ask? I was watching part of Meat, in which John SImm plays a rent boy named Cecil. Enough said, yes? :D

Also, this is the second usable ending I wrote. To see the first one, feel free to travel to the second chapter.


	2. Ending the First

**Title:** Look

**Rating:** White Cortina

**Length:** 317 words

**Pairing:** Gene/??? pre-slash

**Notes: **So many thanks to Dorsetgirl, for helping me make this far better than it would have been.

**Summary:** a study

Look at that - studied slouch, every inch of him perfectly placed. No belt around sunbleached, torn jeans, hips thrown out at exactly the right angle to attract attention - smooth stomach, back arched just enough - must be a cold night, judging by his outline against that threadbare excuse for a shirt. Wonder if the lad could use a jacket.

I can see his eyelashes, if I squint a certain way - a thin dark line against skin yellowed from the streetlight, eyelids closed on an oddly peaceful expression. Head thrown back, adam's apple working before he takes a hearty drag from a half-gone cigarette.

I didn't even know he smoked. Now 'e's suckin' 'em down like a--

Anyway.

Look at him. His knees are spread ever-so-slightly wider than his feet in those scuffed up shoes, you see that? The light switches off, but near-dawn lends enough me light to see his hand twitch, fingers curl and tighten their grip before his lips twist in a shade of smirk I've never seen before. He pushes off the lamp and takes long, easy strides toward the car, his hips doing this little -- once again, every bit of him exactly where he wants it to be. I take small, even breaths as he slings the door open and drops onto the seat beside me. "We'll get 'im yet, Guv. He'll take the bait sooner or later." He reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, all warm encouragement, but from the corner of my eye I can see the instant his smile begins to fade. A moment after he drops his hand, I manage to lift my own and wrap it around the steering wheel to start the fair drive from Canal Street to his flat.

His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't stop burning into the side of my skull for an instant. I keep my eyes on the road.


End file.
